Page 21 of Two Secrets to Surrender (Blackwood Legacy #2)

Chapter Twenty

H earing his name, Conrad blinked. It took him a moment to register Gigi’s face above his. He was lying in a bed, and she was perched by his side.

“Oh, Conrad.” Her eyes shimmered with worry. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine?—”

A blinding pain shot through his head, blurring his vision. He groaned, and just when he thought it had passed, an undertow of nausea pulled him under.

Bloody hell, I’m going to be sick.

“Move, Gigi,” he said urgently.

“Do as he says,” a male voice commanded. “I will turn his head so that he doesn’t choke.”

“I’ll do it,” Gigi insisted.

Conrad felt her hands cupping his jaw, but before he could protest, his insides surged, and he couldn’t hold back the inevitable. An instant later, supported by Gigi, he puked his guts into a conveniently placed bucket. Afterward, he lay back, shuddering and humiliated. He hated being sick—hated how defenseless it made him feel. He’d learned early on that the weakest were culled. At Creavey Hall, being sick meant being exposed: other boys would steal your food or meager belongings or target you to prove their superior strength.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be, dear.” Gigi’s tenderness tightened his throat. “The physician said this might happen. You are lucky the injury was not more severe.”

“The injury…?”

It all came back. Gigi’s shout of warning, the massive statue hurtling toward him. He’d dove out of harm’s way, hitting the ground as it rumbled beneath him. Then something heavy had knocked his head, and he didn’t recall anything after that. Tentatively, he touched his temple and felt a bandage. Beneath the swaddling, pain pulsed.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“At Bottoms House,” a male voice said.

Lord Ethan emerged behind Gigi.

“Why did you bring me here?” Conrad tried to sit up.

“Do have a care,” Gigi said. “You could disturb your wound.”

She pressed on his shoulders, and to his surprise, he didn’t have the strength to resist her. He fell back against the pillows with a grunt.

“I’m fine—” he began.

“That refrain is getting tiresome, Godwin,” Lord Ethan said. “Given that it is categorically untrue. The reason you are here in my home is because my sister insisted upon it.”

“Someone needed to keep an eye on you,” Gigi cut in. “You were lucky to dodge the statue, but part of Mars’s helmet broke off and hit your head. Beneath that bandage, you’ve a cut on your temple and a lump the size of an egg. Luckily, that appears to be the extent of the damage. The physician says you’ve a hard head.”

“Speaking of a hard head, my sister insisted upon staying by your side.” Lord Ethan sounded irritated. “The rest of us had to take turns chaperoning her through the night.”

Gigi stayed with me…all night?

Seeing the smudges of exhaustion under her vivid eyes, Conrad felt a surge of emotion. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone treated him with such care—at least, anyone he didn’t employ to do so. Gigi had lost sleep over him, taken care of him, out of genuine concern.

She cares for me. I knew it.

Despite the megrim muddling his thoughts, he felt his chest expand…with wonder, maybe. Or joy. As he wasn’t well acquainted with either emotion, he couldn’t be sure. At the same time, he was aware of the humiliating stench of his disgrace and the weakness of his position. He did not like being indebted to anyone…least of all, a man who thought him unworthy of Gigi.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said stiffly. “I’ll summon my servants to bring me home.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Gigi said. “You are staying put. According to the physician, you oughtn’t move about for at least a couple of days. He said that recovery from a head injury can take unexpected turns, and fainting spells are not uncommon.”

“I have never fainted in my life,” Conrad scoffed.

Lord Ethan snorted. “How would you know if you’re unconscious? Which you were for several minutes after being knocked in the noggin.”

Conrad narrowed his eyes. “Being unconscious and fainting are two entirely different?—”

“For heaven’s sake, stop it .” Gigi shot to her feet. “Both of you.”

Conrad didn’t reply because her movements had rocked the mattress and set off waves of queasiness. He concentrated on breathing and not spewing his guts again.

“Ethan.” She glared at her brother. “Mr. Godwin nearly lost his life and is in his sickbed. You will cease baiting him, or I shall never speak to you again.”

“Would that I could be so lucky.” His lordship rolled his eyes but said nothing more.

“And you.”

Gigi turned to Conrad. While it was a cliché that women were beautiful when they were angry, in Gigi’s case, it was also true. She looked adorable while spitting mad. This led to the welcome discovery that while his head might not be in full working order, his other head was. When she wagged a finger at him, he had to subtly adjust the blanket to hide his burgeoning appreciation.

“You will cease being pigheaded,” she scolded. “You nearly lost your life and are in no shape to go anywhere. You are staying put until I say you are ready to go.”

Now he really did want to swive her. Wanted to pull her down into the bed and memorize the sweet concern in her eyes while he plowed her to an inch of their lives. Unfortunately, she was right: he was in a weakened state and could barely lift a finger.

“Fine, I’ll stay,” he said. “But I insist upon compensating your brother for the inconvenience.”

“I am hardly going to charge you room and board,” Lord Ethan grumbled.

“You should rest now.”

Gigi laid a hand on his cheek, and her touch felt so good that he relaxed. He felt groggy, as if he couldn’t keep his eyelids open another moment. Suddenly, he remembered that there was something he had to mention, something important. Something he ought to ask about… The thought dissolved in the wave of tiredness that crashed over him.

“I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow,” he mumbled.

“Sleep, my dearest. We’ll talk when you awake,” were the last words he heard before he went under.

He was back at Creavey Hall.

Back in the headmaster’s office.

Back bending over the punishment bench, his trousers down around his ankles. A sheen of cold sweat covered his bare back, on fire with welts…and it was only the first round. Shivering, he tried to breathe through the pain and nausea—to not let fear get the better of him.

Grimshaw preys on fear. It makes him even more vicious. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

When he felt the presence looming behind him, a whimper escaped despite his best efforts.

“What was that, Christian?”

That was his old name…the name of the boy he’d once been. This had to be a dream, but Obadiah Grimshaw’s voice was too real, too convincing. The soft, pious tones did not disguise the sadistic rasp beneath, which became more pronounced whenever he carried out his “holy duty.” Which, when it came to Christian, was often. The headmaster preyed on the weakest boys—the poor and sickly ones, the ones with no family…or family who specifically instructed that they be “reformed.”

“N-nothing sir. I-I didn’t say anything.”

Christian bit his lip to prevent crying out as Grimshaw traced the tip of the birch along a welt. When the headmaster pushed, breaking through the skin, he tasted blood.

“The devil hates liars, you know.”

Rounding the bench, Grimshaw gripped a handful of Christian’s hair, yanking his head back until he had no choice but to meet the headmaster’s gaze. It was like being buried in a coal cellar—like being suffocated by the dark filth heaped upon you.

“Only the guilty avert their eyes,” Grimshaw admonished.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Now you will confess your sins.”

“But I-I haven’t done anything,” he said, his voice hitching.

Grimshaw rose, his tut-tutting raising the hairs on Christian’s nape. The headmaster made a show of rolling up his sleeves to reveal pale, hairless arms. He took his time adjusting his grip on the rod until his fingers curled comfortably, lovingly, around the bundled birches.

“Another six of the best, then,” he said, smiling.

Christian trembled as the headmaster disappeared behind him. Even though he knew it would do no good, he braced. When the blow came, slicing into him like a red-hot knife, he swallowed the salt and rust of his pain. Even as heat spilled from his eyes, he resorted to his old trick. He fixed his gaze on the maker’s mark engraved on the bottom rung of the bench, repeating the word like a talisman. Or a curse.

While she was no physician, Lady Pandora, the Marchioness of Blackwood, knew the fever that gripped Conrad Godwin came from more than the wound in his flesh. She’d experienced this agony herself and knew it came from a deeper place: the soul.

“Poor fellow,” she murmured. “Whatever happened to you, let it go.”

He shuddered, releasing a pitiful sound that tore at Penny’s heart. In that moment, he seemed more like a lost boy than the merciless magnate he was reputed to be. It reminded her of the strength of demons. The ones she’d conquered, the ones she’d watched her middle child battle and beat, the ones that mercilessly plagued her youngest son. The ones her eldest had yet to face.

And she knew there was only one solution.

“Rest now.” She swept a soothing hand over Godwin’s damp brow. “You are not alone.”

Returning to her chair, she kept vigil over the man in the bed. Maternal protectiveness for her daughter warred with compassion for this stranger as she watched his restless sleep. She consoled herself with the thought that, of all her children, her youngest was the one who seemed to know her own mind—and her own heart—best. Gigi seemed to have marched out of the womb with a purpose and a plan.

My dearest girl, I hope you know what you are about. For if this is your heart’s desire, you shall have your work cut out for you.